


Itch

by dilangley



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5240882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilangley/pseuds/dilangley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So one day, Jack let the idea take over, holstered his guns, put on his Pa's old duster, and saddled up his horse and rode away."  </p><p>Jack Marston goes to visit Bonnie before beginning his quest to hunt down the man who killed his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Itch

The dirt over his Ma's grave was still soft when the idea started itching at him. He would look around the little old ranch and admire the wind in the amber grass, the soft lowing of the cows as they grazed, and the fences he had repaired with his own two hands, strong and sturdy. He would admire this landscape he was building up, and then he would remember why he had to do it with his own two hands without the help from anybody else's. That was when the idea would start to itch under his skin, a virus-like anger flowing in his very blood, and he would start stomping around the house, slamming cabinet doors, shooting out the window at shadows, kicking that old pair of Uncle's boots out of his way, anything to alleviate the frustration biting at his insides. His Pa would have wanted him to stay here, build up the ranch, make something good and honest out of the Marston name. How many times had his Ma reminded him of that? Enough times that he had even started to believe her. But she was gone too now, killed by a bout of cholera that just wouldn't quit, and he was knocking around this empty ranch fulfilling somebody else's dreams. The only dreams he had were… bad. He knew they were bad, as bad as the worst things he had read in his old books, but he also knew they were just. And under this fucking Western sky, justice had come to be the only thing he cared about. The idea scratched at him, pushing him to go deliver just that to his father's murderers.

So one day, Jack let the idea take over, holstered his guns, put on his Pa's old duster, and saddled up his horse and rode away. He turned the horses and cows loose first, figured they could fend for themselves that way, and he had had the presence of mind to slaughter two of the cows and leave the carcasses lying out. The place would be swarming with predators for a while, and no man was going to want to claim a piece of property overrun with wolves. They would just move on to an easier landscape. When he returned someday, he hoped this place would still be here, and then he would finish his parents' dream, whether he had to do it alone for every day of the rest of his life or not. Now, though, he leaned low over his horse's neck and urged him on. He had a flair for the dramatic, born from his love of literature that had long since been forced to the wayside, and he had chosen a black horse to match how he felt, hellbent on his dark purpose. There was an old, worn map folded in his pocket, but he did not pull it out. He knew where he was starting his hunt. It was less than a day's ride to Hennigan's Stead and only a bit farther than that to the MacFarlane property. He could ride hard and fast and make it before nightfall if he stayed focused.

At first, his mind was stuck back at the ranch, thinking of the chores that he would normally be wrapping up right now. He would be putting the horses in their stalls, giving them some oats, counting them out carefully to make sure their sparse portions were enough for them to work on but not enough to eat up all his money needed to keep the place running. His own food options were wider; when his pockets got too pinched, he just stopped adding anything store-bought to his diet and lived off what he could kill and gather. As a young man, he had been proud whenever he could do something himself and not have to rely on his Ma or Pa. Now any triumph was gone. He could not rely on them, so he did not. It was as cold and simple as that. The sky was fading to dusky reds, purples and oranges, and he heard the sounds of the nocturnal animals starting to move, little yips of coyotes in the distance and the cheeping of smaller mammals as they moved through the underbrush. It was the Wild West, as those eastern newspapers dubbed it, but despite all its life, it was a dying land. People were pouring over here on trains, seeking opportunity and adventure, and in doing so, they were stripping this place of those very things. It was hard for a man to follow his father's footsteps, even just the honest ones, in a world that was changing so fast.

Up ahead, he saw the blocky archway leading to the heart of the MacFarlane Ranch. He knew that some ranch hand had probably seen him trotting onto the property in the first place, probably had already ridden up to the big house and alerted his bosses that there was a strange man coming. Out here, the lines between hospitality and paranoia blurred so that even as a stranger was offered a drink, the hand that gave it would be concealing a knife, just in case. Suddenly nervous about his decision to come here, Jack fiddled with the reins and pulled his horse to a stop.

Not more than two months after his Pa had died, he had found the letters in an old desk drawer. Seeing them written in the pleasant scrawl of a woman had made bile rise to his throat, and he had hastily snatched them up, tucking them into every pocket he had, even tucking some inside his book, not wanting his mother to see them. But once he got out to the barn on his own and started reading them, he realized his immediate fears were misguided. This Bonnie woman his father had corresponded with wrote about everyday ranch activities; her letters were kind, affectionate even, but platonic, littered with worthwhile advice and genuine well-wishes. Often they even included a greeting meant to be passed on to Abigail or a spry comment about "showing that boy of yours how to farm, too." He still kept them from his mother, not wanting her lack of literacy to create unnecessary fear, but he grew to appreciate the letters because they gave him an insight into his father he had never had before. He enjoyed reading Bonnie's words and trying to trace them backwards to imagine what Pa's had been. When she wrote "About the cattle for sale, just a spoonful of cooking grease mixed in some feed will shine their coats right up," Jack could imagine that his father's words had been "Time's coming to sell some cattle, but I've seen the market and their cows don't look much like mine. What would you do about that?" Or maybe that was not at all the sort of thing that his Pa wrote, but it was comforting to pretend.

Once he had buried Ma and the loneliness had started to set in like arthritis in an old wound, he found himself thinking back to those letters and the familiar way Bonnie had written to Pa, like she knew things about him and his life, past and present. She might know what he and Ma never had; she might know a name, any old name, to start him on the right path to deliver justice. If she couldn't give him a name, it wouldn't much matter. He would just ride on blindly until he found something to go on, but if she had a name, it would help him get a start. It would give him someone to track, a target to start his hunt.

He picked up the reins again and pushed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, preparing to cluck it and push his horse on, when the sound of a woman's voice broke into the twilight quiet of the setting, coming from behind him.

"Lord have mercy." Somehow the words sounded like a sincerely whispered prayer. He turned to look over his shoulder, tugging on his left rein to turn his mount. A woman was trotting toward him, blonde hair in a tangled mess around her face which showed weather- and age-wear on its once pretty features. Her shocked expression was akin to someone having seen a ghost, but when their eyes met, her face pulled itself together, mouth closing again and eyes softening with disappointment. "Pardon me, sir… you startled me is all. How can I help you?" Her voice was alert, a little sharp, and friendly in its own way, brusque and business-like. Jack immediately sensed that this was a woman who did not believe in being seen and not heard; the very fact that she was riding astride half-spoke to that.

He cleared his throat. "My name's Jack Marston. If your name is Bonnie, you knew my Pa."

She had reached him now, pulling up her horse to stop right in front of him. Her eyes were on him more intently now, searching his face in a way that told him she was analyzing every feature for similarities between him and the man she had known. "Yes, son, I did. Many a year ago," her voice sounded wistful, "Saw you riding up through here with a gun slung on your back and that old coat and half-thought it was him."

"He's dead, ma'am," Jack heard the words come out even though he knew there was no reason to tell her. Of course she knew that. How could she not? The name John Marston was famous throughout New Austin. Even if she had not known him personally, she would know that he was dead. Her mouth twitched as if he had slapped her when he said it, but her voice did not betray any pain.

"I hope you didn't drag your ass all the way here just to tell me that five years too late, boy. I know he's dead," she replied. Something like a smile, albeit one with no mirth in, touched her lips. "But that doesn't matter much anymore. It's been a long time. What brings you out here?" Even as she asked the question, she touched her heels to her horse's sides and started off in an easy trot, and he joined her. His horse fell into rhythm beside hers, content to be a follower.

"Let's wait to talk until we're somewhere we can sit down, Miss MacFarlane," he said, eyes straight ahead. The idea still itched under his skin even now that he was working on making it a reality; justice needed to be delivered through the barrel of a gun. He wondered if he was just a little bit crazy. Maybe it was in his blood; perhaps this was how his parents had felt before their lives of crime had begun. Perhaps they had been trying to right some terrible wrong by moving to the other side of the law. He had no way of knowing. They had never talked about their past with him when they could help it. Whether they had felt like this or not, he did not know, but he did know that he felt sane, calm even, just determined.

"The name's Bonnie Harold now. Mrs. Benjamin Harold, if you want to be downright formal. But of course we can wait 'til we're settled inside to get down to business." Her voice was congenial enough but still oddly flat as she corrected him on her name and marital status. He thought of her letters, read so many times between him and his father that they were torn in places, and the painstaking care she had taken to offer every detail she could to help Pa succeed. From some place of instinct, Jack just knew that the woman writing those letters had not been married. That must not have happened until after his father's death.

They rode in silence until they reached the main thoroughfare of the ranch. She pointed him to the barn where he could keep his horse. "Don't forget to give his legs a good rubbing down after that long ride from Beecher's Hope. Little injuries can flare up bad if not noticed early on," she spoke with the authority of a man, used to her role as head of the ranch. He nodded his head, unoffended by her authoritative tone. Just because he had run his ranch singlehandedly for nearly a year now didn't mean he liked it, and he was used to following Bonnie's advice anyway. Like his father before him, he had relied on advice from those old letters to handle those pesky little problems that require experience to solve. He rubbed down his horses legs and gave him some oats before heading towards the big house. There was a dilapidated fence surrounding it, a relic of the early west when those building their homes had tried to recreate plantation style class rankings from back east. That had failed quickly, though, and he knew no ranch hand would hesitate to stroll through the gate into his boss's house, kick off his dirty boots, and talk about the herd. Jack had the decency to knock the backs of his heels against the porch railing before going inside. He left behind a cloud of dust kicked off his shoes as he strolled inside. There were no men's shoes by the door, so he suspected her husband must be out.

Bonnie herself was sitting on the couch. Some glasses filled with a promising-looking liquid that he hoped was whiskey were sitting on the table in front of her, one for her and one for him. He took a seat opposite her in the rickety chair. She motioned for him to go ahead and drink something, and he lifted the glass to his lips and took a swig. Its promise had lied; it was tea served cool instead of hot, not liquor, but he gulped some down anyway. It tasted good and felt better as it ran down his parched throat. When he set his glass down, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and then wiped that hand on his pants' leg. Bonnie snorted.

"Your manners are not one lick better than your Pa's," she informed him. Jack wondered if he should feel disappointed or pleased to hear that but decided on pleased.

"Sorry, ma'am. I've been gettin' on alone for some time now."

"What about your mother? I sent her a letter with my condolences when your father… passed… but I never heard back from her. You didn't leave that poor woman alone, now did you?"

Jack thought of how ashamed his Ma had been of being unable to read; she had probably squinted and stared at the letter, able to make out only her own name, but she had never brought it to him. He was hardly surprised. She loved him, but she never wanted to lean on him as a crutch. She'd been raised leaning on John Marston, and Jack suspected he just couldn't live up to his father's legend in her eyes. "Ma died, Ms. Harold," he pronounced it Miz, "not too long ago." He kept it to himself that his mother couldn't read.

A flicker of surprise flew across Bonnie's features, and she opened her mouth to say something and then shut it again. When she finally spoke, her voice was wary, as if she were suddenly growing aware of why Jack was here. "I'm sorry to hear that," she replied.

Jack leaned forward, putting his palms down flat on his knees so his trigger-itchy fingers did not reveal themselves. His face hardened. "I ain't got nobody left, Ms. Harold. I should have a sister, but she died back in my parents' gang days. I should have a mother, but she died of cholera. And I should have a father, but he was gunned down by the federal government. And there isn't but one of those things I can do anything about."

He should not have been surprised to see that she knew exactly what he was talking about. "You can't bring any of them back."

"But I can bring one of them down," he replied, narrowing his eyes. "I just need a name. You knew him back when he was helping the law, so you might know a name of somebody he was working with. The higher ranking, the better."

She reached across the little end table between the couch and the chair and smacked his arm. "You want me to tell you the President of the United States' name, son, will that help? Lord have mercy, you're talking about a fool's errand. You want to be an outlaw like your Pa, or you want to be a rancher like he so badly wanted to be? You aren't thinking, boy."

"I've been thinking long enough. Now is the time to start acting." The steel in his voice made him want to look in a mirror to see if it was him or his father talking. He was becoming more his father's child every day, he supposed. Bonnie must have had the same thought because she stood up abruptly, not looking at him.

"You can bunk here tonight. It's getting late, and I'd best be starting dinner so's Ben can eat when he comes in. I'll show you to a room on the property where you can sleep, and you can come back up to the house for dinner with me and my husband and Amos when it's ready."

Jack thought about telling her no and heading on his way; if she wasn't going to give him a name, then he had no reason to stay. But the thought of hitting that open prairie again so soon made the ache of loneliness return to his belly, so he nodded his head as congenially as he could and followed her to a bunkhouse. The bed was Spartan but clean, and there was a threadbare rug on the floor that spoke of a desire to be hospitable even in the most practical of settings. He sat down for a minute, surprised at how much his muscles ached and bothered him. It was cumulative, he supposed, an increasing store of pain from never resting, never handing off his work to a friend, relative, or worker. Lifting his hat off his head, he scratched absently and closed his eyes. It felt good to sit down, almost relaxing, but then the itch came back. His father had never gotten to do this, to just sit down and relax, because he had always been on the run from the law or for the law until the day he died. Even when he had been home, he had been busting his ass trying to make something of the ranch for his family. He had never gotten to rest until it was in a cool, dark grave.

Frowning, Jack pushed himself back on his feet and tightened his boots back up. He did not have time to lie around and eat home-cooked meals and rest his tired muscles; he had to do what he had set out to do. First, it would be one night of delay, but then it could easily become two or three, and once he got distracted, he might forget. He needed to not forget. Setting his jaw, he pushed open the door of the bunkhouse, ready to go saddle up his horse. As the door flew open, it nearly hit a startled Bonnie Harold who was standing there, hand extended as if she had just been about to knock. Her jaw was set too, stubborn as steel.

"I thought if you were any damn thing like your father, you'd be trying to get on your way. You damn Marstons," she said it with a mix of anger, terrible sadness, and even a touch of affection.

"I've got things to do, ma'am."

She nodded her head and extended her other hand, the one she had kept tucked at her side. He hadn't noticed it until now that that hand was full, holding a bundle of some kind, wrapped in wrinkled brown paper and twine. He realized she was offering him the bundle, and he reached out to take it. He rose an eyebrow, puzzled.

"I don't think I have a name for you, but… there may be something there," Bonnie replied. She nibbled on her lower lip for a second, teeth leaving an imprint on the tender flesh. The gesture was oddly hesitant. He realized her hand was still extended slightly, fingers trembling, as if whatever bundle she had given him had was one she could hardly bear to part with. He held it tighter in his hand, in case she tried to take it back. A sudden chill seemed to turn his spine to cold steel; he would not give up anything that might lead him to revenge, retribution, redemption. "You can have them."

Jack tugged the twine loose and unwrapped the bundle. In his hands was a pile of letters; he recognized the scrawl of his father's clumsy handwriting and felt a strange, fuzzy feeling in his throat. The letters were all folded carefully, stacked gently, and wrapped securely. They were obviously a treasured keepsake for her, a connection to a time past, or maybe even a hope that had been futile. He wasn't sure. "Thank you," he said quietly. His shoulders shrugged of their own accord, but from the slight smile that appeared on her lips, he supposed she understood the gesture to be one of gratitude.

"Take care of yourself, son," she said, and just like that, she turned around and headed back to the big house. He watched her authoritative stride but somehow suspected she was trying not to cry. Bonnie MacFarlane had obviously felt deeply about John Marston, and Jack did not know how he felt about that. On one hand, it was easy to see how a single woman could have been drawn to a man doing anything he could to get back to his family. That sort of single-minded, dogged determination would have been impressive. Jack moved back into the bunkhouse and sat down on the bed.

One by one, he opened the letters and began to read. They were even-toned, warm, friendly, and absolutely platonic. His father had loved only his mother; of that he was certain now that he had seen both halves of the epistolary puzzle. He scanned each letter carefully, enjoying the day-to-day tone of his father's writing but never forgetting that this was more than entertainment. He was looking for a name. Finally, after his eyes had begun to ache from reading in the dim light, he found what he was looking for.

Edgar Ross.

The name looked up at him, the letters seeming to sneer. It left a strange, cold chill on his skin even after he folded the paper shut. It was odd how someone who had irrevocably changed his life could have such an ordinary name. What did he look like, Edgar Ross? Was he a tall man, broad, dark, fair… did he look like a man who would gun down a boy's father in cold blood? Jack bundled back up the letters, tied the twine, and stuck them in the deepest pocket of the duster. It took him less than five minutes to saddle up his horse and put his entire life back on the road, but he felt lightning-energy in his blood, fresh motivation. Like Beecher's Hope, he was leaving behind the MacFarlane Ranch and not looking back, not until his purpose was fulfilled.

He looked back one more time though, as his horse trotted on, putting a hand into his pocket to feel the bundle of letters settled at the bottom. "I'll bring them back one day, Bonnie," he said, before turning his eyes forward and moving on, just him and the lone prairie.

And the feverish itch of an idea that would never relent.


End file.
